Not me baby

I don’t know what you’re all up to these days, but I’m spending every waking hour from now until the end of the year focusing of one thing, and one thing only.  Trying not to get sick.

Because I have a very expensive date with the Sun coming up and nothing is going to ruin it, least of all a pesky virus. Even though I’ve been successful in keeping illness at bay, you can never be complacent about such things during the Great Canadian Winter when we’re all cooped up together like chickens.

I’m doing all the things your Mother ever advised you to do during cold and flu season….washing my hands, getting plenty of rest, eating my vegetables, ingesting plenty of fluids, making sure that I get enough vitamin C, calcium and probiotics…all in an attempt to ward off illness prior to my departure. I’m even limiting my social engagements to keep from getting run down during this busy time of year. 

I’m hibernating, of sorts, and frankly I can’t wait to do more of it.  This woman was not made to leap into action during the dark days of winter.  My time is filled keeping warm, sitting in front of the fireplace sipping hot tea and gazing deeply into the soft light of our beautifully decorated tree. Quietude prevails in my world.

The rest of you can shop till you drop, party like it’s 1999 and infect each other with good cheer and flu viruses.  I’ll be hunkering down waiting for the solstice signaling the return of my beloved Sun, and getting ready to meet it in the sunny Caribbean.

Santa Management problems

Why is Christmas the only holiday that seems to need saving?  In all the Christmas movies someone …whether human or Muppet, needs to somehow save Christmas, usually by getting some kind of message to Santa on his biggest night of the year. They always seem to be somewhat apologetic, but that never stops them.

Frankly, if I were Santa, I’d be a little steamed about this by now.  Think about it.  364 days of the year, the Big Guy’s got plenty of time on his hands to deal with just such a crisis.  But on the one night of the year where he’s REALLY, REALLY busy, suddenly everyone needs to get in touch and the ONLY person who can save the day is Santa. No delegation will ever do in these scenarios.  Why is that?  Does Santa not have a right-hand Elf to turn to for just these kind of emergencies?  Do these folks every think to get in touch in August?

Personally, I’d be disconnecting my mobile devices if I were Santa.  I’d instruct my elves to hold all my calls while I made my rounds.  And then around the end of January, after having some well-earned recovery time on the annual vacation, I’d be sending some carefully worded messages to the people of Earth about their utter lack of time management/planning skills.  Not that it wouldn’t happen all over again the very next year, because the one thing we know for sure is that Earthlings are pretty thick in the head.

Every year, it’s the same thing. You plan ahead.  You check your list.  Twice. Find out who’s naughty and who’s nice.  And then some nutbar you don’t know starts second-guessing your lifelong ability to separate the wheat from the chafe and ends up having a panic attack on your busiest night. And somehow you’re in a crisis that frankly, you didn’t create, but seem to have to respond to all the same.  It’s enough to put the best of leaders right over the edge.

A little forward thinking…that’s all Santa’s asking for.  If Christmas needs to be saved this year, get the request in NOW.  Or as Santa calls it, The Night Before Bedlam.

The Annual Erection

It’s that time again.  Soft music is playing.  The fireplace is lit.  Romance, of sorts, is in the air.  It’s time for the annual erection of the Christmas tree.  Ahem. We have other more regular erections, thank you for asking. But this one is HUGE!

You know the warning on the Viagra that says something like, “if you have an erection lasting more than 4 hours, call a doctor.”  Last year’s erection of our tree took us 8 Godforsaken hours.  I should have called paramedics.  Maybe they could have helped us with the lights.

After spending 13 lucky Christmas’ together now, Ken and I have finally come up with some ground rules.  We both haul the tree and all the many boxes of decorations up the stairs.  We both build the tree, help fluff the branches and work endlessly to straighten it.  I test the lights, but then I sit down while Ken insists on putting enough lights on the tree to power a small city.  If you’ve noticed a brown out in your region, now you know why.  In the time that it takes him to place the hundreds of lights on the tree, I can have a relaxing lunch, a day at the spa….a night out.

For years, we’ve almost come to blows over the lights.  I like a good glow as much as the next gal, but I was convinced that our tree could be seen from Outer Space.  I trust that all those aboard the International Space Station were marveling at our tree with every orbit.  My concern wasn’t that Martians were going to find our house; I would welcome them with open arms, a Vulcan V hand-signal and a cheery “Na-nou”.  I was frankly more concerned about the fire hazard, never mind the electric bill.

Our tree is down a string this year because half the bulbs have gone out, thanks to good old Chinese quality manufacturing.  I think it’s perfect.  I’m sure Ken disagrees and will soon be off to Canadian Tire to clear the shelves.  In the meantime, our Bat Signal has dimmed, but our tree is erect. 

Honesty is such a lonely word

One of the problems with careening towards menopause is that your urge to tell people exactly what you think of them is at an all time high.  I’m well into the red zone on this front.  Not since puberty have I wanted to tell people so badly, exactly what I think of them and their little schemes, and this is not necessarily a Martha Stewart good thing.

In fact, it’s probably the worst idea ever.  Trust me, if I have an overwhelming urge to scream honesty at you, you likely don’t want to hear it and I’ve been choking on it for so long, that I’m afraid you will see it scrawled across my forehead like a CNN news feed.  I can’t help but feel the need to fasten black electrical tape across my forehead, just like I do on the bottom of my television to prevent seeing the dreaded scroll.  OK, I don’t actually do that.  Yet.

I live in fear that the dyke will not hold much longer.  What is it about Mentalpause that causes the need for such overwhelming honesty?  Is estrogen really the only thing between me and a drama worthy of an Oscar nomination?  No wonder women take supplements. WWIII we do not need.   Or do we?

This transition is about reflecting on your life and your relationships and feeling the need to make a giant list of who’s in and who’s out.  As Oprah Winfrey would say; this I know for sure ….some people are about to get the boot.  It’s simply a matter of timing.

I used to wonder deeply, really try to understand, where people were coming from.  I don’t care anymore.  Come from wherever you like; just take the first door out. You’d think in a country as large as Canada, that we could somehow remove ourselves from the truly small people that are all around us.  I think I’m going have to buy me an island and Zen out for a while to ponder my list.

Whose about to get the boot?  Small-minded individuals who care only about themselves.  The greedy.  Those who impede the success of others. Liars.  People who believe that manipulation and scheming are the way to go.  Those who get a kick out of the misfortune of others.  People who ride other’s coattails.  Abusers.  Bullys. 

Notice that the merely stupid are NOT on this list.  Those making a u-turn over 3 lanes, those who cannot organize a two-car parade, they can’t help themselves and, God knows, we’ve all done stupid.

What I’m talking about here are those with egos big enough to fill sport’s stadiums who have so little sense of self-worth, that they need to prop themselves up by tearing others down.  They’ve been doing it for so long, it’s the only life they know.  Trust me, they won’t recognize themselves on this list.  THOSE are the folks that I need to disassociate myself from.

Freedom from the tyranny of the clock

I’m not a fan of November in Canada.  The days are grey and ugly and it seems that there’s very little in the way of good cheer.  But I think that I may have finally found a way to cope, short of getting on an airplane and flying to the sun that I know is out there somewhere.

Having taken this week off and staying put, I’m here to tell you that this has been the best idea I’ve had in a while.  No airport craziness and I get to sleep in my own bed.

The sheer luxury of hearing snow in the forecast and instead of crawling out of my deliciously warm and snuggly bed to fight my way through traffic chaos, I simply pull up the covers and roll over.  I’ve even been known to restart the electric blanket, just to seal the deal.  The cat is as blissed-out as I am.

The mere idea of sipping a perfectly brewed cup of coffee while watching horrible traffic reports knowing that I don’t actually NEED to be anywhere gives me such joy, tears well up in my eyes.

Not having to wake up to an alarm makes me practically giddy.  We had a power failure this week and our radio came on at 12 midnight because while I remembered to reset the clock, I forgot to reset the alarm.  I couldn’t get back to sleep and ended up awake most of the night.  Normally, that would concern me.  Instead, I went back to sleep at 6:00 a.m. when I should have been waking up.  Sheer happiness.

Breakfast out.  Having time to cook. The quiet.  Playing six games of Scrabble on my computer in a row.  Endlessly surfing the web.  Long lunches with friends.  Afternoon naps with the cat.  Priceless.

It’s the puttering that I love.  Endless hours of puttering around the house, finally getting to jobs almost forgotten, reveling in their final achievement.  Not that anyone else would care.

This week has been about having the luxury of time.  It's what I imagine retirement to be like.  Time to do whatever needs to be done, or not and the freedom to choose.  Aaahhhhh.  So rare in this cockamamie, windswept vortex called life.

Why are we all rushing around like maniacs? What the hell is so important?  This is the only reason that I play the lottery.  So that I can live in peace and quiet without all the rushing and not be any worse off for it.  In fact, if I do it more often, my life will truly be better. 

Next year, I’ll consider taking all of November off.  Fight it out amongst yourselves; I’ll be home under the covers remembering my best idea ever.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Or not.

Snow is a four-letter word in this town.  Nothing can strike more fear into the heart of a Vancouver commuter than the word SNOW and the media knows it.

That’s why they don’t just forecast or predict it, they WARN US about its impending arrival.  Snow alerts, snow advisories and, of course, the ominous snow warnings are implied, mentioned and even yelled from the media rooftops.  The Snow is Coming, the Snow is Coming….something along the lines of the apocalypse. 

This would be OK if the snow were reliably predicted.  It seems that most of the time, it somehow arrives unexpectedly like federal funding for a megaproject.  Somehow, despite all the satellites, weather stations and weathermen holding up their fingers to the wind, it often snows when rain was expected.  “We didn’t see that temperature drop coming.”  Uh huh.  Temperatures dropping during Canadian winters are really rare!

We simply can’t deal with it in Vancouver and that means we can’t drive in it, but mostly we seem vastly underserved in the clearing department.  Despite the tax load that we carry, we seem unable to ever have enough salting/sanding/clearing ability.  We also seem loath to borrow equipment from others all around us.  Instead, we hide inside and refuse to come out.

In Toronto, even if it snows, you’re expected to come to work.  Even if it snows and the temperature remains at minus 40 for weeks. Not so much in Vancouver where even if you only have to travel a few treacherous blocks, it is almost frowned upon to leave your house.  People express deep concern over your bravery if you actually venture out, like you were trying to be a hero.  God forbid you should have something important to do…. like work.

That brings me to the endless debate over the need for snow tires in this climate.  Many believe that All-Season radials will do the job in a Vancouver snow, given the fact that temperatures rarely fall below -2 at best.

Others have taken the opportunity to trumpet the media hysteria and declare that even in Vancouver, it should be mandatory for all to have snow tires on their vehicles at great expense.  All the better to avoid the 85% of other drivers who haven’t a clue as to how to climb a slight grade in 2 cm of white stuff.

I feel badly for the poor bus drivers in this town who not only have to wield huge articulated busses down streets that are coated with snow and possibly black ice, but they also have to avoid the majority of drivers who haven’t a clue as to what to do and seem intent on driving 20 km when a single centimeter has fallen.  Like we don’t have enough gridlock already.

The kids from places like Calgary and Winnipeg double over in laughter at Vancouverites dealing with snow.  In places where snow blowers are mandatory because mere mortals can’t shovel that high, the rest of the country guffaws at our unease, and I don’t blame them.

On the plus side, if it does snow hard enough and often enough, the city does take on a more peaceful and much brighter air to it.  It’s quieter (no heavy trucks on the road clearing much of anything save Highway #1.  I think it’s called that because it’s the one and only road that actually receives any attention.)

Not being able to deal with snow seems so…un-Canadian to me.  Seriously people…learn how to correct a skid.  Keep some kind of kitty litter in your car, should you need traction on the road.  If you’re that scared of the snow, use the kitty litter to poop in.  It beats using your pants.

Unattainable goals

It hasn’t happened yet, but I have good reason to be hopeful.  Being the goal setter that I am, I actually made it a goal this year to skip at least one period.  Not that I could do anything concrete to achieve this (other than pray), but I made it a goal nonetheless.  I put it out into the universe, that I, Kim Heron, officially wish to stop having periods. Period.

Yep, I’m officially “on record” as not wishing to become pregnant. No tears are being shed for Motherhood here.  Let’s get this messy and horrible business over with, once and for all.  From now on, if I’m going to have a wild mood swing, I’d like it to happen sans blood.

According to the book, “Is it hot in here? Or is it me?  The Complete Guide to Menopause”; my official menopause Bible, it seems that within the perimenopause stage that I’m in, one’s cycle actually shortens up to around 21 days before it lengthens out and periods cease altogether. 

Just for kicks a month or two ago, I decided to check out how long my periods have been in this shortened phase…thinking that it had been at least a few months.  I recoiled in horror when I discovered that my periods have been happening every three weeks for the past two years!  Holy crap!  No wonder I’m cranky!

This was a plateau that I wanted to get off of already, even if I had to jump.  “Please, please God, I don’t want to be the only 85 year old woman in the retirement home still making monthly trips to the drugstore for supplies!” was my new whining mantra.

And have you been down THAT drugstore aisle lately?  There are more supplies than ever.  Shapes, styles, COLOURS!  Really, colours?  For the more fashionable among us (and you know who you are), your tampon can be wrapped in fushia or lime green, depending on your mood.  How come they never wrap them in black? Perhaps with a scull and crossbones emblazoned on the wrapper. THAT’s generally my mood at that time of the month. Light days, medium days.  I’m always on the lookout for “God I hope I’m not hemorrhaging to death” days. My guess is that’s in the hospital aisle.

Two years and counting.  Losing hope. Stocking up on supplies.  At this rate, by the time I end up ceasing to purchase tampons, I’ll probably need adult diapers.  Do they come in Fuchsia? 

Make mine a double

God love my friend Linda.  There is no more fun loving, compassionate and truly funny woman roaming the Earth.  And I thought she was of sound mind, until the day that she told me about her recent colonoscopy.

Keep in mind, that this story was being told by a woman, who when coming of age in the 70’s, had embraced her inner hippie and for a time lived alone in the woods in a log cabin.  Where she had a baby.  Without drugs of any kind.

This is where I get off the boat, but hey everyone was doing it.  Why shouldn’t Linda?  Cool.  I crossed my legs, swallowed hard and tried not to think about it.

The thing you should know about colonoscopies is that they require someone to take you home because they give you some of the best drugs that money can buy to make you positively loopy.  Well, you’d have to be wouldn’t you, to let someone stick a camera up your ass?  Yep, you’d pretty much need to be three sheets to the wind, which is exactly where my friend Linda went wrong.

It seemed that her ride couldn’t be there to drive her home. A person possessing all her mental faculties might have tried the ‘phone a friend” route and called someone else.  At least put the procedure off for a day or two to think about it. Not Linda.  Expedient to the core, she had a colonoscopy without drugs.  Did I say had?  I meant survived.

Trying to justify her position, Linda recounted that the nurse at the colonoscopy clinic told her that 90% of people who have colonoscopies, do so without drugs.  The nurse lies.  No one in their right mind would let someone come at them with a 20-foot long tube with a camera and a snippy thing on the end of it without benefit of a mind-altering substance.  Or even a shot of whisky.  Or a bullet to bite on.  Poor Linda had none of the above.

Linda soldiered on.  Let’s just say that the look on Linda’s face while describing this procedure minus drugs was unbearable enough.  I’m clenching right now just thinking about it.

A word to the wise. Take the drugs.  Take every drug in the whole dang cabinet.  You don’t want to be able to stand upright at the end of it, and not because of the scope. 

Maybe there’s a new business idea here in delivering loopy baby-boomers home in a limo after the ultimate clean out and lookie loo.  If you want me, I’ll be busy getting my limousine license and thinking up a suitable name.  BIG business is about to ensue.

Stupid is as stupid does

Honestly, I’m becoming a new kind of stupid as this menopause thing progresses.  I don’t call it Mentalpause for nothing.

On a typical day when leaving the office, I almost need a Sherpa to help me carry all the crap to the car.  As I had my usual armful with me, I was almost half way home before I realized that I didn’t have my PURSE!

Had I not required lip balm on my drive home, I would have been ALL the way home before I realized it.  At almost every traffic light I came to, I pawed at the space behind my seat where my purse normally resides.  Finally, I actually pulled over and got out of the vehicle to look thoroughly for said purse, only to confirm my gnawing suspicion.

No purse equals no wallet, no phone and no passkey to get me back into my office.  It certainly would make it difficult to pay for my hair appointment the next evening without my wallet but the most alarming thing of all was that I really didn’t know where it was. Could it have been sitting innocently on the parking garage floor patiently waiting to be loaded?  Was it in the bathroom? Or was it in my office?  I could clearly picture it in all three places; two of them public where someone could have walked away with my entire life in their hands.

Now it was a race against time to get back to the office before it locked down completely at 6:00 p.m. Why is it that anytime you actually need to be somewhere by a specific time that all lights immediately turn red, your lane is always the slow lane and people just seem to toddle along?  Here I was driving without a license, so I didn't want to do anything too stupid to add insult to injury.

Without my passkey, the question was, where could I try first without being locked out?  I couldn’t even be absolutely certain that I could get out of the underground garage without it, so I planned to begin my search in the bathroom.

Sure enough, I didn’t make it to the building in time.  The little red light on the security pad mocked me. Loser. Loser. Loser.  So I waited at the front door for someone to come out while trying not to look too shady, formulating Plan B in my mind. 

Plan B involved going to a colleague’s nearby house, interrupting what I prayed would be their dinner and explaining my problem to a sympathetic audience.  Perhaps they would even take pity on me and invite me in for a glass of wine. However, the chances of finding my colleague at home and not out at one of her daughter’s soccer, volleyball, ping pong, field hockey or evening golf games would be slim.

Soon enough someone exited the building and I ducked in.  I immediately searched the bathroom; to no avail.  My office was next.  There it was, happily tucked inside my desk.  I heaved a sigh of relief.

This is what concerns me about Mentalpause.  My brain can no longer be relied upon to remember the simplest of duties; like taking your own purse home and not doing something odd like leaving it in the bathroom, in the parking garage or even on the top of the car and then driving away.  That I can’t remember names is bad enough.  That I can’t remember to take my personal belongings with me is alarming.  God only knows what’s next.

A simple thanks

As soon as Halloween ends, the fundraising for The Royal Canadian Legion begins with the Poppy Campaign hitting the streets.

I think of buying a poppy as an annual thank you to those who gave their lives so that I can have freedom; freedom that I’ve enjoyed my entire life.  So I like to purchase my poppy from one of the dwindling number of actual World War II veterans, so that I can say my thanks in person.   Of course, with every passing year, that gets harder and harder to do. 

I have to remember that sadly, not all veterans are over 80.  Many soldiers much younger have come home, equally devastated, from the likes of Afghanistan.  Their lives in turmoil, perhaps even more so because not all Canadians understand the mission.  The only time there seems to be a big homecoming for them is when they come home in a box, and some kind of honour is bestowed upon them in Trenton, Ontario when they land back on Canadian soil.

At recent WE DAY celebrations in Vancouver, a young African man named Michel Chikwaine spoke to an audience of high school kids about being forced to become a child soldier.  I was intrigued about his story, so I looked him up on the Internet.  After all of the horror that he had been through, he finally somehow made it to Canada and makes Ottawa his home.  The first thing he commented on was the lack of bullets flying all over the place and the quietude that is peace. 

We take it for granted that Canada is; and hopefully always will be, a peaceful place.  We don’t duck at loud noises and when a bullet does go off, it gets reported as news.  Those who come here hoping to change that by bringing violence with them as a way of life will not be tolerated, and that is as it should be.

This year, for the first time ever, the Poppy Campaign is going high tech as people may text to donate via their mobile phones.  I still prefer the traditional method of giving, but to each his own.  I applaud their efforts to target a younger generation used to giving via technology.

As Remembrance Day edges ever closer, please give thanks in your own way to all our brave soldiers and their families who have also known hardship.  The hardship of not knowing if your loved one will come home in one piece, the hardship of their children growing up without them, either because of the long absences or because they don’t make it home. 

Thank you to all who make my life peaceful.  Please know your sacrifices have not been forgotten.

And they call it Bunny Love

I’m in love with Sid the Bunny on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.

Sid is a very cute white bunny puppet that Craig Ferguson voices in a high-pitched, effeminate voice.  Except as cute as he is, and he’s REALLY cute, he swears like a trucker, which I find hysterical.  Cute on the outside, naughty on the inside; the way life was meant to be.

I secretly pray before every show that he’ll make an appearance and when he does, I am suitably entertained.  Frankly, he could host the show and I would be thrilled.

I’m not sure what it is about cute little bunny puppets.  They mesmerized me as a child and clearly, they still do.

My previous bunny experience happened on Captain Kangaroo, a show I loved as a child.  Mr. Rabbit didn’t speak and he liked to steal carrots, which was a bit naughty.  But somehow when interacting with Captain Kangaroo, in the course of every show, Mr. Rabbit would make ping pong balls rain down on the Captain’s head, causing no end to glee at my house.

It was a nice, gentle way to stick it to every adult that ruled my life in a non-threatening, silly sort of way.  Sid accomplishes that today.  I really must enter into therapy.

Check out Sid for yourself and see what you think.

Video of Sid the Bunny

How many people does it take to change a light fixture?

I was worried it was going to turn into a three-day job.  That’s what all the Mr. Fixit jobs at our house somehow turn into, because well. …we’re not handy, or mechanically inclined in the least.

Our kitchen light had been going off all by itself for the past two weeks.  Barring the presence of a haunting, I deduced that a technical problem was ensuing.  Although I was somewhat enjoying the fact that it wasn’t as bright as an operating room in the kitchen at 6:00 a.m., trying to make dinner by the romantic fan hood light was becoming a problem.  God only knows what was going into the soup.

So, it came as no surprise when I announced to my husband that there appeared to be a problem with the main light in the kitchen that required fixing before Daylight Savings Time came to an official end.  A two man job…a three-hour tour ….a trip to the hospital…I envisioned it all.

Ken brought the ladder came up from the garage and it was suddenly up to me to determine which breaker was going to cut the power to the overhead light.  Not wanting to be accused of killing my husband for the insurance money, I shut down every power supply in the room.

Ken took the current fixture down…reconnected it and was barely off the ladder when it stopped working again.  Seems that any little movement to the fixture, even one required to re-point the lights rendered it lifeless.  After almost a decade, the fixture had given up the ghost.  “Crappy materials they make these things out of” he grumbled.  That it had worked for almost ten happy years seemed a moot point to him now.

With visions of an electrical fire dancing in my head, we kept the kitchen lights off and dashed to the lighting store to examine the array of fixtures.  When we returned home with something we thought would work on the sloped ceiling, something very much like the current fixture only darker, out came the ladder once more. Off went the breakers.

Ken was no sooner up the ladder than the swearing began.  “Help me!” he cried, in a pleading tone.  I thought I was helping; I was carefully reading the tedious instructions. 

But, I scurried up the bad side of the ladder anyway …not the side with the nice wide evenly spaced steps.  Oh no.  On my side the “rungs” were razor thin with a 2.5 feet gap between them.  I hoisted myself up, one foot on the horrible metal step, one foot planted firmly on the counter, holding the lighting fixture with one hand and a death grip on the ladder with the other, trying not to fall into the sink.

I’m not sure what it is about a 4-foot ladder than strikes fear in my heart.  I can dance on top of the CN Tower without a care in the world, but a 4-foot ladder?  May as well be on the top of Mt. Everest swaying in the wind. I glance around the kitchen wondering what it would be like to be that tall, in an effort to divert my mind from how horribly uncomfortable I was.

He was swearing and screwing as fast as he could, but all I could think of was, “how much longer do I need to hold this thing?”  All he could talk about were the crazy people who take obvious pleasure in building devices where every screw head requires a different screwdriver.  THAT explains our current screwdriver collection numbering over 50 strong.

At last, the screwing and swearing was over and the fixture was up.  Good to know that something had been erected.  The only problem now was the plate thingy covering the inside of the fixture seemed to be dangling.  Problem.

I flipped the breaker to see how successful we had been.  The light came on.  However, it was quickly determined that we needed to install the actual mounting plate that came with THIS fixture which was obviously much shorter.

And so, after much grumbling, in the space of an hour we erected our new kitchen light fixture not only once, but twice.  And I’m happy to say that the lights are once again coming on at our house, even if nobody’s home.

Now all we need to do is change the light in the TV room to match it.  Aarrggh.

Just call me Barnacle Bill

So the fun thing about reaching middle age is that you begin to discover all kinds of strange and unusual spots on your body that you’ve never noticed before.  Barnacles and blemishes of all descriptions.  Redness, flakiness, itching. 

And so, with the omnipresent threat of cancer everywhere, you ponder running to the nearest walk-in clinic to risk looking like a hypochondriac just to make sure.

My thoughts run amuck recalling that my father had this exact kind of spot on his forehead in almost the identical location.  His turned out to be skin cancer.  What if the weird red spot on my forehead burrows a hole into my brain and I get brain cancer?

Alright…perhaps a tad overly dramatic, but the question remains; should I risk getting an infectious disease at the start of cold and flu season simply by sitting in a germ infested medical clinic for hours on end, to wait for a certified doctor to look at my forehead only to declare, “nothing to worry about.”

I decide that I have nothing better to do with my Saturday and head over to the walk in clinic.  I pray for a slow day and pack a headscarf to protect myself from the germs being sneezed all over the waiting room. 

The waiting room is full but eerily quiet.  I’m left to ponder the array of ailments that lie within it.

Finally, my turn arrives.  I feel mildly embarrassed to even be taking up precious medical resources.

It’s official.  Some kind of keratosis that I’m apparently prone to, being fair skinned and all, but nothing to worry about at this stage.  We decide to burn it off with liquid nitrogen just to be on the safe side.

Barnacles be gone.  Now leave me alone and let’s hope I don’t come down with the flu in about 10 days time.

It's crunch time

After having witnessed my very soft belly spilling over the top of my jeans for the past two years or so, I have decided that enough is enough.  It’s time to get down on the floor and do what I’ve been avoiding for too long.  I’ve got to toughen up the abdominals and get this baby back under control.  I need abs of steel.

I stopped doing crunches when my middle-aged neck started “going out”, which is code for deteriorating.  Having never had a back/neck/spine problem my entire life, one fine day about 2 years ago I woke up in excruciating pain emanating from my neck.  I wondered aloud later in a doctor’s office if the extreme forces of zip lining had caused the problem?  No, the doctor assured me.  This had probably been coming for some time. I chalked it up to too many years of looking both ways before crossing the street (damn that Elmer the Safety Elephant!) and quickly changed purses to stop exerting even more pressure onto my delicate bones.

And so, my giggly little tummy, which has become quite cute, has been getting rounder and softer with each passing year.  It’s time to flatten the Pillsbury doughboy once and for all.

In the past when I’ve attempted to restart the crunch program, I’ve joined a class.  A word of warning to the uninitiated:  NEVER begin with a class.  You have to run before you can walk.  Your body is not up for 25+ minutes of intense abdominal workout, no matter what your brain thinks.  You’ll be dead before the first ten minutes have passed, so save yourself the pain and start slowly.  Work up to three sets.  Forget reverse crunches for now.  Just try to get the ball rolling without giving up.  THAT’s my mantra. Small changes consistently over time; that’s the new reality for those who don’t wish to be hospitalized.

Will I be bikini ready in time for my cruise?  I won’t be ‘bikini ready” for the rest of my life, despite Demi Moore’s accomplishment in the Charlie’s Angels redo.  Oh, unless someone wants to pay me $1 million dollars for the result.  I’m open to offers.

I’m expecting my back to feel better as I get the strength to stand up taller.  That alone, should provide the motivation.  Shrinkage is always a problem and I can ill afford to lose any ability to reach the second shelf of my cupboard.  Nor can I get any physically closer to the gas pedal in my car.  Nope.  What I need is to stand taller and abdominal strengthening is way better than donning heals and screwing up my back.

Indecision

I don’t know if it’s because I’m riding the hormone express roller coaster, or because I empathize with those occupying Wall Street, but I’m hard pressed lately to feel good about spending money, especially on things I know I can do without.

Take yesterday for example.  I’ve been trying to decide whether to purchase an e-book reader.  On the surface of it, I like the idea.  I love to read and being able to take not just one book with me on vacation, but four, appeals to me.

But the very idea of spending money on a gadget, that does what exactly…allows me to never have to set foot in a library or book store again and saves me a few bucks on books?  For this, I have to compare and contrast a variety of products that change monthly and decide how much money I’m willing to spend on this single use device.  Or, should I give it all up for door number three and purchase something like an iPad for even more money?

Why not just head on over to my new multi-million dollar library and sign something out?  Easier for sure and less guilt inducing.

I’m going on a cruise at the end of this year to celebrate my birthday.  Yeah for me.  Two things occurred simultaneously last week that took me aback.  The first was that good old Sesame Street is introducing a new character on the show who’s experiencing poverty and doesn’t have enough to eat.  Seems that too many American kids today are in this unfortunate boat and Sesame Street decided that it was too large to ignore and wanted to address this problem.  Good for them.

At the same time, I needed to book a hotel in Florida pre and post cruise.  I wasn’t able to get one for less than $200 a night at that time of year (thank you Christmas gouging).  I’m going to spend $200 a NIGHT to house myself in comfort while kids in that state, and in fact the entire country, are going hungry?  In one of the richest countries in the world, no less? Holy smokes. Makes one pause for sure.  I can only hope that my addition to their uncertain economy helps.

It just seems to me that all of us would feel better about spending money if we all had some to spend.  It’s my hope that the Occupy Wall Street folks stay right there until Election Day in November 2012 and that this movement gains traction worldwide.  So many need to hear their message and particularly those in decision-making roles.

Not so scary Halloween memories

Halloween was always a good time at my house.

I have so many Halloween memories growing up.  Not that I remember many of the costumes that I wore…far from it.  It was more the preparation that stays with me.

I vividly remember being in Kindergarten and walking as a class, not to the pumpkin patch to get a pumpkin, but to the local Esso station. They were piled up as far as the eye could see on some kind of cart and after our long journey to get there, took serious contemplation as to which one to choose.

Back in those days, that was quite a hike for a little person.  The walk from our school to Shepherd Avenue was a good 3 blocks or more…BIG blocks that used to be forested.  We walked in two’s Noah’s Arc style holding hands on a journey that must have taken at least a morning where we picked out the largest pumpkin available and then spent the afternoon scraping it out and carving it, not to mention roasting the seeds. 

I could hardly wait to receive my Unicef box at school.  Being the overachiever that I was, and wanting nothing to distract me from my candy mission on Halloween night, I collected my pennies for Unicef after school but before the witching hour.  Most of my neighbours understood this.   When new neighbours moved in, they did not and insisted that they would not fill my Unicef box before Halloween evening.  Whatever.  I was always so proud when it was full.

Dinner on Halloween night was always the same at my house…macaroni and cheese.  Happily, not Kraft dinner, but real macaroni with real cheese.  That was as fast as food came in those days.

My brother always managed to fill almost an entire pillowcase with candy.  He covered more streets than I ever could.  When we brought home the loot, our mother would check it over carefully before we were allowed to have any.  Sneaking it enroute was forbidden and would only lessen the comparison with my brother at the end.  It was kept in a bowl on top of the fridge and was doled out for weeks; one year damn near to Christmas.

My favourite candy was always the Rockets.  Little convex discs of sugar that looked like pills nicely wrapped in clear cellophane packages.  The purple ones were (and still are) the best.  Even if I see them today in a corner store, I’m tempted to purchase them.  That they’re still produced today is some kind of miracle.  God knows Rockets (and Sweet Tarts) were responsible for more dental work in my childhood than anyone could imagine.

Caramels were always great and those yummy little chocolate bars. If we ever scored a little bag of chips, you’d think we’d died and gone to Heaven…chips were a rarity in our house.

Halloween then was always about the ritual of deciding on the costume.  The weeks of planning that went into it.  The discussion with friends.  The one costume I remember was the year my brother was an astronaut.  It was the 70’s and space (the final frontier) was all the rage having just landed on the Moon.  The authenticity was striking.

Living in the suburbs, we never did anything crazy at Halloween…just garden variety trick or treating.  But we would always hear stories of Halloween in the country from my mother where pushing over outhouses and covering stuff with toilet paper was all the rage.  Actually, they didn’t need Halloween in the country to scare the crap out of them.  The creepy house they lived in was sufficient with its root cellar and parlour that was straight out of a horror film.

Happy Halloween kiddies!  Enjoy your costumes and especially your Rockets while they last.  And don’t go into the root cellar if you know what’s good for you!  Bwwaaahaahaaa.

What's that smell?

I’m not sure who’s crazier in my house; my husband or my cat, but there’s a showdown brewing in crazyland.

In this corner, our somewhat nutty cat, Casino.  He seemed fairly normal in the photos and even kinda cute for the first year that we had him.  Little did we suspect that he had some kind of “problem” around his litter box.  I’m not sure if he has performance anxiety or doesn’t like people looking at him while he pees, but if anyone knows of a good cat psychologist, I’m all ears.

He used to use the bathtub for his “business” on occasion, but now he’s taken to peeing on our hardwood floor by the front door.  Not because his practically gold-leaf lined litter box isn’t clean.  It’s pristine.  All right, it’s not actually gold leaf, but at $20/box which only lasts for 2 fills, it’s the most expensive litter money can buy.

And before you tell me about my cat’s “medical problem”, let me assure you that he is quite capable of using his litter box properly and mostly did until fairly recently, when the good weather arrived.  We’ve done everything from praise him for using his box, to literally putting him in his box and “encouraging” him like his Mama never did.

The reason he pees on our hardwood floor is to register his disdain at not being allowed to be an outside cat, although frankly if he were to run away and join the circus now, I wouldn’t object.  In fact, I’d even offer him a ride because my days of starting off each and every morning cleaning up cat pee are numbered.  Cute can only get you so far.

In the other corner is my slightly nutty husband.  The same husband who laid the hardwood floor with his own blood, sweat and tears.  That’s tears, not pee.  He’s now taken to laying down a piece of vinyl the entire area of the hardwood for the cat to pee on in all his glory.  He hasn’t quite reconciled how either a) we will get the front door opened and closed with this arrangement or b) how HE will clean up the cat pee from the vinyl.

To date, we haven’t let him be an outside cat because of the neighbourhood elders complaining about cats defecating in their gardens.  Nor would we like him to be a meal for a roving raccoon.  But the aroma of “Eau du toilette” in my front hall may change my mind on this. 

As late night host Craig Ferguson says, “I look forward to your letters.”

Where the rubber meets the spa

Heated car seats are the best invention since sliced bread.

The fact that they begin to work their magic before I’ve even left the gate of our complex on a damp fall morning warms my cockles and fills me with joy.

I’ve given up being radiated through a sunroof to be warm within Vancouver’s mist from the bottom up and I have no regrets.  Heated seats were the number one request for my latest vehicle.

I once gave my equally heat challenged girlfriend a ride home in my Ford Fiesta.  As soon as we sat down, I had the seat warmers engaged, the satellite radio tuned into the spa channel (yes there really is such a thing!) and my sexy interior disco lights turned to a warm purple glow. 

“This is just like being in a spa!” my guest declared before she even knew what was happening.  And I couldn’t agree more.  Driving this way makes being stuck in traffic a pleasure.

I’m not sure why I don’t fall asleep with all this relaxation going on.  Probably because I know that I could die at any moment should the various drivers around me care to do something crazy, like run a red light.  Tends to keep me on my toes and makes it all the more necessary to have the cleansing spirit of the spa with me at all times to keep my blood pressure in check.

It recently got me thinking…what other cool spa-like features could be installed into new cars?

How about a back massager built into the seats? Are you listening Ford Canada?  And don’t think that they should only be in the high-end models. Road rage would be a thing of the past if they were built into all the cars.  People would LOOK for traffic jams to get into. 

With cars being able to park themselves, why not have an autopilot that can drive the car for me after I’ve been to an actual spa when I’m too comatose to drive?  That would be handy. 

Perhaps the car could brew a nice soothing cup of tea or coffee while I drive.  It could be under the radio.  Like some of the new coffee makers today, I would just place my cup under the spout and press a button.  The heat could be borrowed from the seat warmers and the water could come from the air conditioning.  All I’d need to do is load a little capsule full of tea or coffee and voila.

As a thank you, I’m hoping that Ford Canada will send me a pair of nice fuzzy spa slippers that have the word “FORD” emblazoned on them.  That and give me 15% of the action every time a customer chooses the “spa” package.

What snazzy features would YOU build into a car?